


an interlude

by clayre



Series: picture it, soft [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Late Night Conversations, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24449209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clayre/pseuds/clayre
Summary: “You know,” he said, “it occurs to me that … no. I don’t know you very well.”The Warden and Alistair take an evening to talk.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Warden (Dragon Age)
Series: picture it, soft [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1812277
Comments: 17
Kudos: 72





	an interlude

**Author's Note:**

> cranked this shit out in one sitting bc i'm a SUCKER for emotional intimacy ♥♥ & i love the idea of the Warden and Alistair being best friends & talking about anything & everything all the time 🥺 bioware if you made a dating simulator where you just had really long conversations with Alistair, money would be no object for me i WOULD buy it

It was a dream that woke him.

Alistair hadn’t been a Grey Warden for very long ─ half a year and some months, now. While his dreams still manifested, he was able to shake them off quicker than he’d been able to after his Joining.

He still remembered opening his eyes to visions of dragons and an expansive army, alight with torches, and the exhaustion that came with it. Sometimes it’d be in the early hours of the morning, the sun not yet rising over the horizon, but no matter how he tossed and turned, he wouldn’t be able to slip back to sleep. Sometimes the other recruits laughed at his haggard appearance at breakfast, and sometimes they were sympathetic. They all went through it once, after all, and they all knew how bone chilling the dreams had been.

Which is why, when he’d awoken, Alistair sat up by the fire and watched the Warden’s tent.

These days, he was able to sleep. He’d wake up, panting, but once his pulse had calmed and his breath evened out, he’d be able to drift off once again.

The Warden, though, would wake up with locked arms and wide eyes, tremulous breaths that sounded ripped out of her. When she noticed him watching, she’d school her features into calm, but the sickly pallor of her skin and the glossy sheen of her eyes betrayed her. In the morning, he’d be able to see that she hadn’t slept since.

Alistair knew, of course. He knew how bad it had been for him, and he knew it was worse for her. She’d taken the blood during a Blight, after all, and the intensity of the dreams were worse then, or so he’d heard.

He wished she wouldn’t try to understate it. There was no one in Thedas who could understand her more than he. And yet, at the same time, he was almost grateful. As selfish as it was to admit, he struggled to feel … vulnerable. He remembered her thanking him, the first time she’d thrashed awake in a panic, and he’d dumbly said, “That’s what I’m here for. To deliver unpleasant news and witty one liners.”

She’d smiled at him like the sun rose behind him, though, so he supposed she wasn’t all that offended.

Truthfully, she didn’t seem to mind how cagey he was at all. It didn’t deter her from asking questions every time they stopped; she’d asked him about his time with the Arl, about his time as a templar, what it was like to be a Grey Warden with the others.

She’d even asked him if he wanted to talk about Duncan. He’d brushed her off, but the earnest way she pressed had him crumbling, and he found himself going on and on about things he couldn’t imagine her caring about.

Every time, however, she’d watch him with a dedicated attentiveness that had him feeling flushed and hot all over.

The fact of it was, he was starting to _want_ to be open with her. It was easy to speak with her about anything, and they’d laughed themselves to tears together more times than he could count. He considered her a friend. There were times he wanted her to be more than such.

Andraste’s flaming knickers. Alistair wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, and he could feel himself blushing just thinking about it, about all the little things that were seeming like one big thing.

They’d been at Redcliffe a few days ago ─ he’d stopped her, told her the truth about his bloodline, and stumbled through an awkward conversation that had Morrigan making the most evil faces at him from behind the Warden and his own cheeks going pink. At the very end, he’d asked her to pretend he was still just some nobody, too lucky to die with the other Wardens, and she had looked at him very seriously.

“You don’t really think that, do you?” she’d asked him.

“Well, no,” he’d admitted. “What I really think is that I was lucky enough to survive with you.”

Then her face had gone clear and open, soft around the eyes, and she’d said, “You’re here with me. I think that makes _me_ the lucky one.”

He was still thinking about it. Maker, he was thinking about nothing else, which he felt very badly about, considering. They were days on the roads again, heading back to the Circle once more, because the Warden refused to kill a child.

She seemed angry with Isolde, though, from the moment they’d met. He half expected her to let the Arl’s wife sacrifice herself for Jowan’s ritual, but she’d given Alistair one lingering sidelong glance, and then asked for other options. It was like she expected Alistair to chime in, frantic, to tell her the Circle had lyrium and mages, and he had only started to think later that she was doing this for him.

 _Stupid thought,_ he told himself, his eyes still locked on the Warden’s sealed tent, _very stupid thought._

The Warden was a paragon of altruism. They’d gotten into Lothering after chasing off bandits and immediately she’d given out money to robbed folk, sympathized with the raving Chasind man outside the Chantry, freed Sten ─ her records of good deeds could fill a book by this point, he reckoned, and to think he was at all in any way special because she could have been doing something kind for him was … naive.

When he saw her tent folds shift, he told himself her compassion was all the more reason to wait up for her like this. No good deed goes unpunished, and all that.

It had been at least an hour, maybe even two, since he’d braced himself awake; he knew, eventually, she’d come out of the tent, too stifled and shut in to breathe. She could never seem to find sleep again after these nightmares, and he resolved to be a consistent and calming presence for her; she wasn’t alone. He was here.

When she emerged, she looked ghostly. It was strange: he’d seen her several times now, sans armor, but it still struck him how small she looked without it. She was vicious on the battlefield, wild eyed and snarling when she sliced through Darkspawn, bulky in her armor and seemingly untouchable. But now, in the dim of the firelight, clad in only a modest linen shirt and a pair of simple trousers, she looked weary and vincible.

“Can’t get back to sleep?” he asked, keeping his tone casual.

When she looked at him, something akin to relief passed over her exhausted features. He pretended not to notice. “Not for lack of trying.” There was humor there, but her voice was coarse, just slightly, and the sound of it almost made him shiver.

“I’ll bet,” he said, watching her as she padded barefoot across the grass. He expected her to sit beside him, but she walked past him. Bracing himself on his hand, he’d started to turn to see where she was going, but suddenly her back was pressed flush against his, and he could feel her openly lean much of her weight against him. He took it, gladly, part stunned and part thrilled that she felt comfortable enough to do so. Gingerly, much less brazen than her, he let himself lean back, the warmth of her soaking into him and making him feel pleasantly hot, like he’d downed a pint in one pull.

They sat in comfortable silence for a time, back to back, and her breathing was steady and strong, despite the dreams. “I hope Redcliffe’s all right,” she said, unbidden.

“It is,” he assured her, “you made sure of that.” He cleared his throat. “Look, I … I know this was a lot to ask. Morrigan was right: Jowan’s ritual was a sensible solution with a willing volunteer. That ─ that probably would have been the timeliest thing to do. The easiest thing.” He picked at some grass as he spoke. “But I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Don’t you know me very well by now, Alistair?” her voice came. “I never do things the easy way.”

He laughed despite himself, trying not to jostle her too much. “You know,” he said, “it occurs to me that … no. I don’t know you very well.” He could feel her shifting, like she was moving away, and he amended, “Not the way you know me. I feel like I’ve been doing all the talking and it … it occurs to me that I haven’t asked anything of you.” She’d gone still, which was comforting; he’d take that over her leaving. “I’d like to. If I may.”

“What’s to know?” she asked, playful, but he could detect hesitance.

“Sorry, did you need to borrow my shield? So you can hide behind it? I thought deflecting personal questions was my thing. Isn’t it my thing?”

Her laugh was bright and beautiful. He wanted to hear it all the time. “All right, all right. Do your worst.”

Where to begin? He wanted to know everything about her. Her favorite color, her favorite holiday, her favorite foods, her favorite drinking song. “Hm.” He adjusted himself on the grass, pressed more of himself against her, until he could feel the back of her neck against his shoulder. “You’ve asked me about my childhood with the Arl. What was yours like?”

She laughed again, but this time, the sound was self-deprecating. “Alistair, you have a talent. Somehow you ask the one question I was hoping you wouldn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, a little surprised, “you don’t have to answer.”

“No, no. It’s fine. It’s just …” He could feel her head shaking, her hair teasing at his nape, and the hardest thing he’d ever done was forcing himself not to shiver. “You’ll think I’m spoiled.”

That … wasn’t what he was expecting. He barked out a laugh, unable to stop himself. “You, dear lady? Spoiled? We’re camping in the middle of nowhere, and you have to eat my cooking. I wouldn’t dream of thinking you spoiled.”

Another chuckle, genuine again, but small. “I was born in Highever. Teyrn Cousland was my father. I lived in a castle, and I had my run of it, and I was a wild, wild girl. I would run up and down the halls, tracking mud everywhere. My nanny would scold me, but if I ever cried, she’d sneak me pastries when she thought no one was looking. I’d begged and begged my father to allow me to practice my swordplay, and I’d had the best tutorage in both academia and swordsmanship. I was the youngest, so my mother and father doted on me. Though they doted on my brother, Fergus, too. We were inseparable, attached at the hip. Being firstborn, he was to be heir of Castle Cousland, but I attended Landsmeets and traveled with my parents at their behest as well. I was expected to learn the ways of nobility, of managing vassals and a teyrnir.” She hesitated. “Actually, I … I was going to rule the castle when father and Fergus were away. I was very good at it, but I resented my father's decision. I wanted to go into battle with them. I thought ruling would be boring, and easy, and lonely.”

He let that sink in for a moment, then asked, “Why would I think you’re spoiled?”

“Because while I was sleeping in a lavish bed in my own personal chamber, in our own personal apartments, you slept in the stables. Because my father loved me dearly, and called me pup, and you had a man unwilling to anger his wife for you. Because I had a brother who loved me and cared for me, who protected me like an older brother should, and you never knew yours. Because I have experience with nobility, with ruling, but you ─ you’re on a path that could end with you on the throne, and you don’t even want it. You’ve no official education in governing.” The longer she spoke, the angrier her voice got, until he could feel her breaths coming short and quick against his spine. “Because my life has been positively charmed, and it hurts me that yours wasn’t.”

Alistair pursed his mouth while he mulled this over. For a beat, the fire and crickets were the only sounds that broke the silence, while he tried to find something to say to her that would convey how that was the last possible thing he cared about. “You’re the least spoiled person I know,” he told her, softly.

She snorted. “You think so now.” The fire cracked violently as a piece of wood snapped, falling apart, as though to punctuate her thought.

“I thought so before, too,” he said. “You know, I was actually just thinking about this. When we went out into the Wilds, and you picked that flower for the sick hounds in the kennels. And when we found that man ─ the missionary ─ I remember you reading over that missive he’d left behind, and then you asked,” he put on a high pitched voice, _“Alistair, can we go back? He’s left a lockbox near those Chasind ruins we just cleared out.”_

Her shoulders shook with laughter. “I don’t sound like that.”

“Not at all,” he agreed, “but that’s not my point. You asked me that and I thought, wow, she really wants to go rummaging around in Darkspawn corpses and garbage looking for a lockbox that probably doesn’t have anything particularly valuable in it. She thinks she can find this, this wife in Redcliffe, and give her an answer to the worst question of all.” He paused, watching the fire crackle and spark, embers of ash floating up into the sky, and wet his mouth nervously. He was almost grateful her back was to him; it gave him the courage to speak. “I thought, oh no. I like her. Don’t make me like her. I don’t want to like her when there’s a chance she could …” He cleared his throat. “But you didn’t. And, Maker forgive me, I’m glad it wasn’t you. I’m glad you’re the one who made it.”

She was quiet. He almost thought he went too far, but then she was saying, “Funnily enough, when I came to Ostagar, my first thought was my hair, because it was a mess. And my eyes. I know they were bloodshot. Even though I’d traded my title, I still thought I should … I _wanted_ to look noble. I wanted to impress the Wardens. I wanted to look strong.”

“... You did,” he insisted. “All of ─ that. What you just said. Your childhood. That didn’t matter to me. And it doesn’t now. In fact, I’d argue we’re lucky you were raised a noble. You’re diplomatic, but you’re not afraid to debate and barter for a better outcome. Won’t take no for an answer, that kind of thing. You’re … you’re a leader. We respect you, all of us.” He brushed imaginary dust from his trousers. “And I, most of all.” He wasn’t sure when the conversation had gotten so serious, so he tried to reign it in, drive it somewhere he was more sure of himself, and said, “Though I do resent you horribly for having a bed to yourself, my lady Cousland.”

She shouldered him, and he rocked forward from the force of it, laughing with her.

“It wasn’t always to myself,” she teased, and he felt himself flushing from his cheeks to his chest; it was both pleasant and bitter, and he decided very readily that he didn’t want to think about that. “Thank you, Alistair,” she said quietly.

“That’s what I’m here for. To make you feel bad simply by existing.”

She laughed again, high pitched peals that had Sten’s nostrils flaring in annoyance from where he was sitting a few feet away. 

(Earlier, Alistair had thought he’d been sleeping, honestly; his eyes had been closed, though his back was ramrod straight, and at one point he’d told Alistair to stop staring at him. Alistair had said he’d just been checking.)

“That’s not what I meant! And I don’t mean to say I pity you, either. I don’t mean to condescend. It’s just …” Suddenly, she sat up, and Alistair felt a chill down his spine from the loss of her. “Prince Alistair! That’s what it is!” she declared. She settled back into him, heavier and closer than before, her head resting against his shoulder and throat. If he tilted his own, he could press his cheek into the crown of her, and if he angled it, he could kiss her hair. “You didn’t want me to know you were a Theirin, because people treat you differently. I thought … I feel the same. I don’t want you to think I’m some, some uppity noble looking down her nose at you. I want you to like me for me.”

His heart was aching, beating fast and angry. He prayed to the Maker that she couldn’t feel it against her ribs. “I do like you.”

He couldn’t see her face, but he could hear the smile in her voice all the same. “And I you.”

Somehow, some way, this had gotten away from him. He wanted to know more about her, but now he was sitting with his hands fisting grass, his throat feeling tight, his chest and face burning hot. He tried to keep his breathing steady, and he was so focused on keeping his shoulders relaxed and soft for her head that he was probably tensing them up into stone. He could hear her mabari hound, a few yards off, growling playfully in his sleep, yipping at some dream creature, and he tried to concentrate on that noise.

“You said you were thinking about it,” she recalled. “Our meeting at Ostagar?”

“Well, not exactly,” he said. “I was thinking about, ah, you. Doing things. Kind things.” He cocked the shoulder her head wasn’t resting on in a shrug. “Like this, right now. On our way to the Circle, for the Arl and his family. Or you being hurt that I wasn’t pampered.” He worried on his bottom lip with his teeth. “I was just thinking, wow, she’s incredible. You’ve given ─ much. You’ve given much.”

The only answer was a hum, low in her chest. They were quiet again, the fire popping and wood shifting as it burned, and after a while, she said, “Why were you thinking about me?”

This was an easy answer, at least. Relieved to have found his footing again, to get back onto familiar ground, he said, “Because of the dream. I knew you’d wake up and I … I guess I wanted to be here. For you.” A pause. “I dunno. Was that a stupid idea? Am I babying you?”

Her body shifted when she placed her hands in the grass, bracing herself on her arms. Her wrist was pressing against his own, gentle enough to simply be coincidence. “No,” she said, “I’m glad for it. I thought of you when I woke up, too. I was hoping you’d be awake. I feel better if you’re there.” He could feel the tendons in her wrist move when she slid her hand along the ground, until her palm was just barely touching his own, their fingers parallel.

Alistair’s mouth had run dry. The ambient sounds of the camp were drowned out by the generous thudding of his heart; her wardog’s sleepy huffing and dream-kicking sounded a countryside away, the fire snapping and breaking sounded like a distant carriage. The air around them felt thick with something, and her head was a pleasant weight on his shoulder. At times it seemed like she’d hoisted the world on her shoulders, stoic and determined, and if there was one small act he could do, it would be to carry that weight with her.

His tongue felt sluggish in his mouth when he spoke next, like he was drunk, but he was bolstered by her inability to see his face. “What did you think of me?”

“What do you mean?”

“At Ostagar.” He swallowed thickly. “The first time. What impression did I give you? I hear those are very important.”

The hum that left her was amused and drawn out. “I thought you were funny.”

For some reason, that was enough to cut through the sweet, sticky feeling he’d been sinking into, like syrup. “What? That’s all?”

She burst out with a laugh, but it wasn’t unkind. “You say that like it’s an easy feat,” she argued. “Before I arrived at Ostagar, my family had … Highever was …” Suddenly he felt very foolish and small, and he wanted to stop her, tell her it was all right not to tell him. Before he could, her pinky finger twitched, and lay over his own. His heart lurched up into his throat. “Meeting you was the first time I’d smiled since. It was a long journey,” she said, wearily, “from Highever to Ostagar. The Bannorn felt like it stretched on forever, and I kept thinking about it. How I’d left them, while my father lay there, in all that blo─” She had to stop, and her voice had gone meticulously cold, like a true diplomat, but he could tell she was composing herself. “Duncan was ─ he tried ─” He moved his own fingers, letting his third rest over her pinky; casual enough to be explained away as simple comfort. “He was a kind man. He … he helped me. I owe him my life, I know it. But I didn’t want to talk, and I think he understood that. I wanted to be miserable. I was set on it, actually. When we arrived, I’d at least hoped to see Fergus. But they’d told me he was in the Wilds, beyond my reach. I wouldn’t find him, and I was ...”

He didn’t think about it. He couldn’t see her face, couldn’t gauge her reaction, and it made him brave. When she trailed off, he fit his hand over hers, wrapping her smaller fingers up in his own like it was the most natural thing in the world.

To her credit, she continued without further pause. “You can imagine. I was grieving. I still am.” Her thumb had closed over his own. “Then I found you. You and that poor mage,” she was laughing as she said it, the words bumpy and melodic, “and you told me ─”

“The best thing about the Blight is how it brings people together,” he finished. 

He knew she’d meant something entirely different, but he _felt_ found. He felt like she’d found him, and he’d found her.

She sighed, but it was a good sound. Relaxed and happy. “That was the first time I’d smiled since,” she echoed. “You make me laugh, Alistair.” Her hand was warm and sturdy in his own, calloused from battle. “Laughing with you is easy,” she told him, “and it’s the first thing I thought about you. I know it’s horrible to say, but you were right. The best thing was that we were brought together. I wish it were under better circumstances, but I feel … very fortunate to have found a friend in you.”

He realized, then, that he’d been resting his cheek against her hair as she spoke. “As do I,” he agreed, quietly, and he almost wanted to pull away and grab her by the shoulders and make her face him, to see what she looked like, what expression she wore, what her eyes looked like, her mouth.

She turned her head, until he could feel her skin against his neck. “Your turn. Very first impression of me.”

“Didn’t I already tell you?”

She made an indignant sound. “No. You told me what you thought of me in the Wilds. What was the first thing you thought when I approached you in Ostagar? With the mage?”

“You’ll be disappointed,” he warned her, mostly to make her panic. He could feel her go stiff against him.

“Maker, I knew it. It was my hair, wasn’t it?” She sounded almost petulant.

He laughed, loud. Sten’s nostrils flared again. “No,” he said, thumbing at the meat of her palm and rubbing short, deep circles there. “Your hair was fine. I like your hair. It was mostly, oh, would you look at that, that’s a woman.” He could feel the bridge of her nose against his throat, her breath warm on the top of his spine. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth of it, either. He’d seen her and thought, right away, that she was beautiful, and he hadn’t expected that. “I mean, I was curious, of course. I wanted to know what Duncan saw in you. It’s just I was actively trying not to like you. I didn’t know if you’d survive the Joining. I didn’t want to … get attached.”

“Sensible. Just so you know, you sounded like Morrigan just then.”

Alistair wheezed out a sound like he’d been stabbed. “Andraste’s flaming sword! You ─ you’re wicked. You’re a wicked, wicked woman. You say these things just to hurt me. And it works. I’m mortally wounded.”

The Warden tittered, quiet, and then said, “And are you?”

“Mortally wounded? Yes. I really don’t think I’ll last the night. I don’t know why I’d want to, at any rate, not if I’m going to sound like a complete bitch.”

“No,” she said, “are you attached?”

“Ah.” It slipped out before he could stop himself; she had caught him off guard. He blustered through a response before she could take that to mean an awkward denial, “Do you have to ask? I ─ I consider you a friend as well. That is to say.” The last part may have escaped as more of a mumble than he intended.

“I know,” she admitted. “I just thought it’d be nice to hear it.”

His cheeks felt warm again. “Sneaky.” He hadn’t let her hand go yet, and if he could bear to be honest with himself, he didn’t want to. “That’s the last flattery you’ll get out of me, just you watch. I’m onto you now.”

Her voice was darkly amused when she spoke, each word ghosting over his skin with her breath, “I think I can get more out of you yet.”

Ignoring the goosebumps was impossible, but he hoped she couldn’t see his ears turned red from where she was resting against him. Her hair smelled fresh and clean from when she’d bathed earlier, spring water and the barest hint of something sweet and floral from her oils, faded away over time. His mouth was practically pressed into the crown of her head. Her shoulders were hard against his back. “You could. I find it hard to think of something you _couldn’t_ do.” His throat worked when he swallowed.

“See?” she teased, drawing the word out. “Easy. I didn’t even have to try.”

“You would never have to try to have me compliment you. I’m offended you’d think otherwise.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, coy. “I’ve tried before and it hasn’t always worked.”

It took him a moment to process that, and when he did, the knowledge settled hot and pleasant in his chest, and he grinned at the fire in front of him. Her thumb was light over his own, moving in slow, soothing lines back and forth, over the bone. “Have you?” he prompted.

“I have. I wore my hair differently once, before Redcliffe.” Her tone was playfully haughty. “No one but Leliana noticed.”

“Again with the hair. Must be hard, being a woman,” Alistair commented dryly, and she _giggled._ Maker, it was cute, quiet little snorts, almost bashful. “Allow me to rectify that. Ahem.” He shifted just slightly, sitting up and away from her. When he twisted himself around, she was mirroring him, her hands pressed into the damp grass, legs sprawled out behind her. Her eyes were dark and soft, and she was already smiling.

“Your hair is …” Her hair was similar to how it’d be when she’d peel off her helmet, sweaty and covered in blood. It stuck out in odd angles from sleep, and he could tell she’d been in her tent, pushing her own fingers through it in frustration. He was going to say something funny, he really was, but what came out was, “Beautiful.”

She seemed to have expected the former as well. She half-blinked, looking suddenly off guard, and then her mouth curved into a bigger smile, the kind that made her eyes crinkle at the corner. “You’re lying.”

He tried to reign it in. “Maybe a little.” Carefully, he smoothed a hand down the side of her head, trying to calm the stray tresses. The feel of it, soft against his palm, had him changing his mind again. “Not at all, actually. You could be bald and you’d still be pretty.” Gently, he let the pads of his fingers run down the length of her cheek, twining her hair in his fingers until he was tucking it behind an ear, thumb resting lightly against her jaw.

It could have been the glow of the fire, he knew that, but he could swear her cheeks had gone rosy. He was distinctly aware his other hand still lay over her own, suddenly, and now that he could see her face, he felt less sure of himself. She was smiling, and her head was tilted into his touch, but he was losing courage like it was draining out of him, run through with a sword.

“But the hair helps much, yes,” he said, and pulled his hand away from her. She didn’t seem to mind, laughing at what he’d said. He turned back around right after, inwardly cursing himself for getting too caught up in … whatever this had been. He wasn’t _stupid:_ he knew that their banter was often times flirtatious, knew she responded well to that kind of talk. In fact, she often instigated it of her own volition. He just wasn’t ─ he wanted it to be _right._ He wanted there to be flowers, and charcuterie boards with lots of cheese, and to _court_ her, and for there to be much less armor and blood, for there not to be a Blight.

He had a thought, as she settled back against him, and his eyes were drawn to his pack. Maybe the rest of that was unattainable, but nestled safely and carefully with his things was a single rose he picked from Lothering. The town was gone now, lost, despite all her efforts to help the people there; at the time, he’d wanted to preserve something beautiful, something that survived and bloomed even in the darkest moments, but the more he thought about it, the more he thought about her.

Maybe it wouldn’t be exactly how he imagined it, but he had flowers.

“Will you stay a while?” she asked him, and her voice was hushed. “With me? I don’t know if I can sleep yet.”

He pressed his cheek against her hair again, tightening his hold on the hand beneath his own. Her own face shifted, her warm forehead flush to the soft spot beneath his jaw, her eyelashes feather light over the skin of his throat.

“Of course, my lady. I’m right here.”


End file.
